My mother is an expert in the guilt-trip. Last week she phoned to say "Happy Birthday" and, after a 10 minute conversation, finished with, "Well, I hope you have a nicer time than I did on the day you were born."

She also stated that she was going to kill herself when she reached 65. On Christmas Day morning. Having rung up to see if there was anything she could bring for lunch.

I think it's just a mother thing, but how good are your relatives and friends at the passive-aggessive?

Women!
"Look not upon me with thine bulging, juicy eyes!" I pleaded. "The answer is 'NO!'" She shuffled a little where she sat, plaintively fingering the buttons of her coat. "Thy ruse of faux-pity shalt win no favour with this here fellow," I warned, sternly. Nevertheless, I was losing patience and I could sense cracks forming in my steely resolve. I vowed to myself that I would not surrender, but her silence was more powerful than a thousand screaming accusations. "Thou doth attempt to bestow guilt upon my conscience," I argued. "But my conscience has neither the capacity nor the reason to bear such weight. Thou art misguided and ought not to continue in this shameless fashion, for it shall be thine undoing. And thou shalt know this when my granite fist meets thy hard but fragile face."

At last, she broke her silence. "Sir, I understand. Do not worry thyself. It is wrong of me to expect anything from thee. After all, you pleasure me daily, watering my petals with thy warm, silky syrup and furnishing my soil with thy most abundant of seeds. I insert my nimble digits into thy tight man-quincy, suckle upon thy stubbly nips and kneel, cow-like, so that thou may indulge in untamed jimmynudgery, as is your wont. This I do day after day, week after week. I should be satisfied with my lot. I should not ask for more. I am but a selfish wench."

I looked around sheepishly. The street was busy and I did not want anyone to hear. She turned away. I sensed she was beginning to weep. Alas, she had done it again. I knew in my heart that I owed her nothing, but I was unable to respond with a cohesive argument. I crumbled and reached into my pocket. I gave her the money she wanted and took the document from her. "See you at dusk in the usual place," I said, and bade her farewell.

I walked away down the cracked pavement, and I knew I would not be the last to succumb to her sly, back-handed guilt-mongering as I heard her voice again, crying out to anyone who might hear as she plied her filthy, shameful trade: "Big Issue, please!"
(stusut79, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 13:34,
closed)